The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
by Riene
Summary: The winter of 1980 was a miserable affair in Chicago. Snow, ice, and a bad case of the blahs have left Christine Daae, music teacher and theater geek, down. Taking on a project to cheer herself up brings a strange and unusual man into her life. E/C, of course, and my annual Christmas story. Submitted for NotaGhost3's annual Christmas phic contest as well!
1. Chapter 1 Advent Angel

The winter of 1980 was a miserable affair in Chicago. Snow, ice, and a bad case of the blahs have left Christine Daae, music teacher and theater geek, down. Taking on a project to cheer herself up brings a strange man into her life. E/C, of course, and my annual Christmas story, with three chapters total. :) Please follow for updates!

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Chapter 1

Advent Angel

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Christine thought if she had to hear Andy Williams assure her that it was "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" once more, she'd throw the office radio out the fifth–story window.

It wasn't the most wonderful time. It hadn't been for years. This year seemed even more dreary than ever. The streets were vile, filled with dirty, slushy, half-melted snow that never seemed to drain or get scraped properly away. It merely hardened overnight into rutted ice, waiting to break your ankle. There was no parking to be had and tempers were fraying, shoppers sullen, and children more whiny than ever.

New Year's Eve wasn't going to be much better. They'd just be drunk and sullen.

Finally the last few minutes grudgingly wore away and the clock reached quitting time. At least for her, working this wretched temp job after school. The poor souls doomed to the evening shift were about to start.

She stood, stretching, and switched off the little space heater under her desk. Taking a temp job at the package store had been an act of desperation. She needed the extra money, and as a music teacher, had three spare weeks over the Christmas holidays.

She shrugged her way into last year's coat, dragged the hood up over her head, and tied the belt tightly. Not that it would do much good against the wind. She found her gloves rolled up in a damp ball in one pocket and cursed. They could have been drying out all day if she'd remembered.

The subway was on time for once, but packed full and reeking of exhaust fumes. Christine had a splitting headache by the time she made it to the suburbs and out to the commuter parking lot where her little car sat buried in snow. It started on the third try, the battery weak and headlights dim. "Just get me home," she told it, "and you can sit in the nice warm garage overnight. I'll even put you on the charger." Reluctantly, the VW Bug rolled through the lot and out on to the expressway.

.

The mail contained nothing but bills and more catalogs, and the television screeched an endless stream of holiday cheer and consumerism, in-between bouts of depressing news. Christine ate a bowl of canned soup, hung the coat and gloves to dry over a floor vent, and gave up, heading to bed. The whole day had sucked. Any other time she'd pick up the phone and call her friends, but Meg was with her family, probably baking cookies and hanging stockings by the chimney with glee, drinking spiked eggnog and showing off her new diamond engagement ring. And Raoul…he was where this time? Nassau? The Bahamas? Grand Cayman Island? Somewhere ridiculously exclusive and warm with his family and friends and frat-brother connections, drinking expensive liquor and lying on a beach. Probably flirting with the island girls or some débutante sorority bimbo with more bleached blond hair than brains. She _didn't care_ , she told herself fiercely. They'd broken up after that last fight, and he could just go to the damn beach. She hoped he got the worst sunburn of his life.

A sharp spike of pain let her know she was grinding her teeth again. Christine rolled over, punched the innocent pillow into submission, and forced herself to relax. Tomorrow had to be better.

.

 _For heavens sake, Christine…there's almost always someone who has it worse than you. Try to find them and make their day a little brighter, hmmm? Keep it a secret, like your good deed for the day. You were a Girl Scout, right? Try it. I promise you'll feel the better for it._

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling, smiling. Fredericka Valerius had been her childhood music teacher, a stern, elderly woman who had taught Christine piano and then voice. She'd become much more, almost a surrogate parent as the little blond girl had become a bewildered teen. She'd offered those words one afternoon, exasperated with the teenage girl's angsty, self-pitying attitude.

Christine couldn't even remember the cause of that poor-me afternoon, but she'd taken the old lady's words to heart, and for the next few weeks tried to be a little more observant and kind to those around her. She'd cleaned her room without being told, and did her share of the chores a bit more willingly. She'd left a handful of notes around school, complimenting the girls and boys who were never cool enough to be part of the "in" crowd. She had washed glassware for her favorite science teacher, dusted shelves for the literature teacher, left cookies for the postman, and walked Mrs. Steven's fat and smelly poodle. And actually…it _had_ helped.

She rolled back over and punched off the alarm clock's buzzer before it could start. She'd try it again. Anything was better than her sour attitude of the previous day. Maybe she'd be someone's Secret Santa for a few days. But for whom?

.

Oddly enough, her luck seemed to turn that Saturday morning. Her favorite boots were dry and she found the favorite blue cowl-necked sweater she thought lost. She had taken the time to put her little car in the garage last night and hook up the engine warmer, so it was cleared off and greeted her with its headlights-and-bumper smile. Christine patted the Bug on the fender and made it to the commuter parking lot early enough to catch the 7:35 train. She made an effort to smile at all of the harassed customers in the package store, even the ones who hadn't even addressed their boxes or didn't realize that shipping a large crate to Outer Mongolia on 14 December meant it wouldn't arrive in time for Christmas. She kept a sharp eye out for someone who could use some holiday cheer.

Her answer came in the form of a phone call. Christine had loved to sing and dance since she was a toddler, and her relatively poor family had always scraped up enough money for this one indulgence. She had gone to college on music scholarships, and had become an elementary music teacher, but her evenings and weekends were spent with the community theater.

She'd tried out for a role in _South Pacific_ , the upcoming spring musical…and now here was the call-back she'd hoped for.

.

Every theater eventually acquires its own share of eccentrics, and The Highlander was no exception. The Directors, Moncharmin and Firman, claimed to have Broadway and West End experience, and maybe they did…there were a lot of jobs that involved work backstage. Adele Giry certainly had some background as a dancer and instructor, and Reyer, despite his sharp voice and exasperated mien, was a good music director. The door guard, an Iranian named Nadir Khan, was a sad-eyed basset hound of a man, tall and big-boned, a once-powerful man and a widower. Each was odd in their own way, but her target was not these. For somewhere, under the building in the basement, was the sound-man and special-effects guy, Erik Something.

He seemed to hang out below the stage, but he was everywhere and anywhere at once—hanging lights, working the soundboard back in the booth, running cables, managing the special effects. She'd even seen him a handful of times, a tall, thin man wearing the usual black of the backstage crew, military-short dark hair and something not quite right about his face. Meg thought he was a creeper and her mother had sharply forbidden the girls from exploring the old basements, but Christine wasn't so sure.

And if she'd ever seen someone in need of holiday cheer, it was Erik.

.

She started with a mug.

The previous year, one of her students had gifted her with a mug. It was the most hideous thing she'd ever seen, a leering elf face, but it had the redeeming grace of holding nearly a quart of hot coffee. She had no idea what the man drank, but filled the interior with cocoa packets, tea bags, spiced cider mix, instant coffee, flavored creamer samples, and two miniature bottles of rum and whiskey. One could always make a hot toddy.

She wrapped it in gaudy green paper with absurd dancing reindeer, too outrageous to miss, and tied it with red ribbon. Christine attached a card— _Erik-thanks for making us look and sound so good!—_ and stowed the mug in her carry-bag. She'd have to find a way below to leave it where he might find it.

Her opportunity came mid-evening, in the rush of a large group number. Christine slipped below stage to the workroom where she knew the tech crew cut gels and stored bulbs for the spots and minis. She left the wrapped present on the workbench where she knew he'd see it and was back in the wings before anyone noticed she was gone.

Christine went to bed with a lighter heart that night, plotting her next move.

.

The next few school days were crazy with excited kids and frazzled teachers, and the evenings franticly busy with people dashing in to mail packages, late Christmas cards, or buy stamps, paper, or mailing labels, but they were far easier to bear now that she had a purpose. On her way home Christine stopped by McCrory's and bought ingredients for baking and the softest yarn in manly colors she could find. That evening, as the homey scent of sugar cookies baking filled the tiny apartment, she dug out knitting needles and set to work on a scarf.

It had become a game, figuring out when the mysterious Tech Director would be occupied and she wasn't needed on stage. She'd left the box of cookies, carefully iced and wrapped, next to the light board with his name on the label, and the sausage/cheese balls on his desk. A packet of graham crackers, giant marshmallows, and a couple Hershey's bars, complete with s'mores-making instructions, she left in the pocket of his long black coat. One evening she'd had enough time to make two loaves of homemade cinnamon bread, one for herself and one for him, and snuck it into the mail room with his name prominently displayed on a sticky tag.

An only child, Christine had had a lot of practice looking slightly confused and innocent. Four years of teaching children had given her a perfectly straight face. When she noticed his dark figure leaning on the lighting booth window, staring down at the stage, she had no trouble keeping occupied with talking to fellow cast members or looking very busily absorbed in the Director's harried instructions. Once or twice she'd seen him, standing well back in the shadows, arms folded and watching suspiciously. He had to be trying to figure out who was leaving him things as the man rarely left the booths or substage areas.

.

"All right, everyone, that's it for the night. We're done." Reyer's voice came thin and exasperated over the speakers. Out in the stalls he rose, pulling off the headset and heading it to his assistant.

Gratefully the cast and crew fled the stage, making a beeline for the reception lounge where everyone had deposited their potluck offerings two hours before. It was the usual amalgam of offerings—deviled eggs, fried chicken, potato salad, cheese and crackers, piles of cut-up fruits and vegetables with dips, nachos, pizza, rolls, sliced ham, cakes, pies, cookies, dessert bars, brownies.

She was the last in line, having stopped by the restroom and checked on her latest surprise in the cloak room. Erik's next gift was there, tucked in a bag and hanging under her coat on the same hook. It had ended up quite long, almost a Dr. Who type scarf, for Erik was very tall and she'd wanted it to be long enough. Christine was rather pleased with it, with its mix of colors—black, brown, grey, navy, crimson, and forest green. She hoped to be able to give it to him tonight.

Christine was reaching for a plate when she noticed the silent presence behind her. Erik had actually joined the group, standing stiffly at the end of the line. Up close, his eyes were an unusual hazel, almost a dark yellow or gold, and he had to be at least 6'4". He gave her a quick glance and turned away as her eyes widened, disappearing back into the hallway.

He wore some sort of facial mask or appliance.

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Thanks for reading and please review. :)

~R


	2. Chapter 2 Christmas Eve

**AN** —The first chapter was originally written last year for a Christmas phic contest but I didn't get the story completed. I found it a few weeks ago and did a bit of revision. I'm glad you are liking it!

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Chapter 2

Christmas Eve

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Finally school was out for the holidays and she had a chance to relax a bit. The last week of the semester was always crazy with Christmas plays and music programs, parties, report cards due, and the kids wild to be out on the break. Working most evenings and every weekend at the package store now became a nearly full-time job, six hours a day ( _sorry, Ms. Daae, but that's all the hours we can offer you_ ), just enough so that she was useful but wasn't full-time with insurance or any benefits. Oh well. It would be over with on Christmas Eve. Maybe she'd have enough saved up to go somewhere warm over Spring Break this year. Evening rehearsals for the play were for only one more week, the managers giving in to demands not to hold sessions on the week before the big day itself. Soon they'd announce the names for each coveted role.

And therein lay the problem. She had just one more gift to leave for the mysterious sound-man, a jolly red stocking filled with Hickory Farms treats and candies, just snacky things he could eat on the run. She'd had fun picking out the sharp cheddar cheese, sausage, crackers, cookies, jam, mustard, fruit, and candy, enough to fill the stocking from toe to tip. It was easy enough to justify the expense...she had no one else to spend any money on, with Raoul lazing on the beach and her gift for Meg already purchased and wrapped weeks ago.

Christine was fairly sure the taciturn man was on the watch for his mysterious benefactor. He was suddenly everywhere at once- -lurking in the shadows, leaning over the catwalks, clinging to the baby-spot rigging like some awkward black spider- -and she'd had no chance to slip off-stage or to the lower levels recently. Here it was already Christmas Eve...she'd need to sneak in to the building at some point tonight to leave the last surprise. It should be easy enough. She had a key, one that Meg had slipped from her mother's keyring years ago and copied so the girls could explore the building when they should have been studying. The management had never bothered the change the locks on the old side door so getting in unseen was not difficult. She had successfully used the key just last week, to leave a card with a book of fast-food coupons (for the always-rushed spots between rehearsal and set-up) taped to his basement door. Christine had no idea where Erik lived but the crew always seemed to be up at the theater during breaks. He'd find this last gift soon enough.

She parked the Bug down the alley behind an old truck and glanced up at the sky. It was already dark as pitch and the clouds were heavy; it would probably snow again soon. She'd need to get in and out fast before it hit. Christine fished the key from her pocket, fumbling with her heavy knitted mittens, and eased the door open, bracing for a creak, but it swung easily and silently, recently oiled.

The theater was dark, with only the ghost light on above the stage. Christine stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, and hoping she would not stumble on the mess backstage.

And nearly jumped out of her skin when the piano began to play.

The old grand was an ancient and battered thing, a full fifteen feet long, the lid scarred from various activities, but kept in tune and wheeled about on its truck as needed. It had been a great lady in its day, but like so many of the other bits and pieces of scenery, props, costuming, and sets in the old theater, was only a dim shadow of its former grandeur.

The notes fell softly into the velvet silence of the theater, absorbed into the dusty curtains at the sides but channeled easily to her ears due to the superb acoustics of the old building. She stepped forward, straining to listen, as the unseen musician worked magic on the grand. Christine did not know the piece and it irked her. As a teacher of music she prided herself on a familiarity with many genres from classical to folk, rock to country to pop. This was outside her experience, a soft lament, a gentle lullaby, an aching sadness in auditory form. She stepped closer, straining to see, as one of the boards creaked under her weight.

The pianist continued and Christine let out the breath she'd been holding. Surely he...he?...had not heard the sound over the notes, a waterfall of arpeggios in a minor key. Smiling at her good fortune, Christine retreated as quickly as she dared. Perhaps she would be able to drop off the gift and exit while the unknown musician played to the empty auditorium.

Stage left led to the stage director's alcove, a short hallway, the green room, and beyond that, the hallway to the managers' office, break room, and dressing rooms. She tried the door, finding it locked, and slipped on down to the auditorium entrances. From here she could hear the unknown pianist again, still pulling such sweetly sad notes from the grand.

At the side of the foyer a sweeping set of stairs curved up to the balcony tier, and from there, a smaller set led up a ladder to the sound room. She could leave the stocking next to the board.

Pleased with her stealth and success, she retreated through the foyer, down the halls, and up onto the old stage, angling to cross behind the rear-most set of curtains. The haunting melody wrapped around her, slightly louder, sounding oddly muffled and distant near the concrete wall.

She was halfway across when it happened.

Hands, terrifyingly powerful gripped her upper arm in an iron grasp, spinning her around and slamming her shoulder against the wall, her sweater tearing, a voice roaring from everywhere at once, the sound a thunderous bellow of fury. In her terror she flailed out with the other arm, jerking it away and above her head, encountering something slick and hard, cold and bony. The voice changed to a strangled gasp of pain, shoving her away with such force her head cracked against the cinder-block wall and a shower of sparks passed her vision. The hands grabbed her shoulders, bruising and icy, shoving her against the wall, and she screamed. The face that loomed over her was a thing of nightmares.

.

.

Christine sat on the edge of the stage, knees drawn up to her chest with her face between them, blotchy and red from crying, the bitter taste of bile from retching still horrid in her mouth.

She'd gagged at the sight, heart racing from fear as he'd ripped the stocking cap from her head and the bright curls had tumbled out. Erik had stared in shock as she'd crumbled, sobbing and choking, then turned away, one hand flying up to his face, covering the scars and the gaping hole where surely a nose had once been.

"I am so, so sorry," she choked out, arms wrapped around her head. He made no answer from where he sat at the piano, his back to her and head bowed, hands clasped loosely between his spread knees. "I must have looked like...I don't know..."

"An intruder." Erik's voice was harsh. "Dressed all in black, sneaking around. What was I to think?"

She gulped miserably, pushing back her hair. "I didn't know it was you...it was you, at the piano, wasn't it? How did you keep playing?"

He strode over to the stage manager's station, leaned down to tap a small silvery box and held up a cassette between bony fingers. "A tape."

"And the voice...it was so loud...it was..."

"Another trick. I used the new wireless mic, linked to the speakers. It was meant to be disorienting."

"Well, it worked." She sniffled, rubbing her face, and then added belatedly, "Are you okay? I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

"It wasn't a hard blow," he said shortly. "But you caught me right across the face." The scarred nasal cavities were still stinging, the prickles making his eyes water. It had hurt like the devil at the time. He'd been unprepared for the slight figure in his hands spinning and striking him, for the fall of dark honey-colored curls, soft as a kitten's fur, brushing across his hands. He'd pulled back as if burned. "What were you doing here, at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same," she quipped. "You scared me half to death."

Erik flinched. "I noticed."

"Not because of...of your face. You grabbed me in the dark!"

"You could have been a thief or vandal," he pointed out reasonably, touching the tender bridge above his nose, and swore under his breath. "And you still haven't explained what you were doing here, or how you got in."

She looked away. "I was bringing something up."

"What?"

She lifted a stubborn chin. "That's not your business now, is it? I don't have to answer to you." As he took a deep breath to respond, she rushed on. "What was the name of that piece you were playing? I don't recognize it."

"It doesn't have one," he snapped. "And at this rate, it never will."

Her eyes widened. "Did you write that? It was beautiful."

"Please, Ms. Daae, just go home," he gritted out.

"Fine." With one final sniffle she stumbled to her feet and head, down, slipped out the back door without even a final glance his way. Erik slammed the bolt in place behind her, and hit the wall with a fist of frustration.

.

The room was dimly lit at best, easier on his sensitive eyes, the lamps turned low. It was Christmas Eve, but nothing was merry and bright. The concrete walls were bare, the oak table empty of festive décor, the door shut firmly against a world that had never wanted him.

On an old side table in the corner lay the only bright color in the room-a hideous leering elf mug, a spill of tinfoil-wrapped chocolates, a booklet of coupons, a folded scarf, absurdly long, a card. A red stocking slumped against the mug.

All from her.

He'd retreated to his rooms below the theater in a black mood of rage-fueled self pity. Another person, horrified and screaming at his face. But she hadn't run after that first shock. He had to give her that much. But still, the look on her face….

Erik had returned to the piano after firmly shutting the door behind her. Oh, he'd watched long enough to be certain she'd made it to her car and driven safely away; he wasn't that much of a cad, and the neighborhood was sketchy at best. But the music was gone, the delicate wistful melody lost again in the abyss of his mind.

He'd slammed his fists on the closed keyboard cover, frustration welling up in a black tidal wave of despair and anger. So close; he'd been so close to finding the right passage again, only to lose it. Erik swept the pages from the top of the battered grand with one long arm, seething. Another night lost.

He was on his way back downstairs when it occurred to him that the girl—Christine—had neatly sidestepped answering his question. What _had_ she been doing? She had been out in the main lobby, had come from the foyer…he'd heard her steps, quick and light, on the marble stairs. She'd been upstairs for something. Scowling, he rose, gathering the scattered pages, and went in search.

The foyer was empty, the rooms locked. A trickle of a idea teased the back of his mind and he frowned up at the sound booth then took the stairs two at a time, and there it was, a lumpy fake-fur stocking, small twine-tied boxes packed inside, the bright red jarring in the harsh fluorescent lights.

The pieces came together.

 _She_ was his secret Santa, his unknown benefactor. Pity for the monster, perhaps? His thin lips curled into a snarl. Did she consider herself some Lady Bountiful? Bestowing blessings on the less fortunate? With a curse he seized the stocking and hurled it into the trashcan…only to fish it out a minute later. Food was food, and god knew he'd had little enough of that lately. He'd eat the treats as he had the others and never acknowledge he knew from whom it came. Five minutes later he'd slipped behind the packing crates and through the passage between the walls, into the old storage room that was now his home, the laden stocking dangling from one long hand.

The drive home had been endless, the cheery colorful lights blurred by tears, but Christine had not truly started crying until she had bolted the door of the apartment and thrown herself down on the shabby sofa, arms locked around an old pillow.

It wasn't fair.

She'd tried, she really had, to make someone else's holiday merry and gay. Well, it didn't feel merry now. Was there even any point to going to the midnight church service? No one would notice. No point in hanging a stocking by the radiator with care. Santa wouldn't be showing up, though she could certainly use a visit from the Wise Men bearing gold and advice.

Holidays stunk.

.

 _Stop being a bastard to everyone, Erik. It's not always about your face._

Khan's tired voice echoed through his mind and Erik sat up, the thin and scratchy blankets falling down around his narrow hips, and promptly began shivering in the chill dank air of the basement. What time was it?

He'd met the Iranian at the VA Center years ago, when they were both in rehab. Fate had brought them back together in Chicago. Khan had been genuinely pleased to see his former roommate, had helped him get the job, remembering the younger man's skill with electronics and interest in music. They'd stayed up late over more than a few drinks, more than once.

Now in the dim light he looked more ghostly than ever, pale skin marred by old injuries. He rubbed the bare flesh gingerly, jutting bone and twisted scars, the missing eyebrow and pulled lid, the utter lack of a nose. There were limits to what plastic surgery could do with facial injuries, but would it have really made that much difference? The worst scars were in his memories.

But the girl, Christine, hadn't looked at him with pity, not after that first terrified reaction, and he could almost...almost...believe she'd been actually interested in his music. She had spent weeks bringing him little gifts, nice things, too, and for what reason?

Erik pushed the covers aside and swung his bony feet to the floor stifling a yelp at the cold concrete, and dressed quickly, black turtleneck sweater and sweatpants, sneakers and very thick socks.

No, there was nothing here that any woman would want.

But that didn't mean he had to be a bastard.

A few minutes later he was unlocking the door to the managers' office.

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Thank you for reading, and please review! :)  
~R


	3. Chapter 3 Epiphany

**AN** —And here we are at the last chapter. Thank you all so much for the reviews and reblogs. I hope you enjoy the ending. Merry Christmas, everyone. :)

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The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Chapter 3

Epiphany

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"I will not be treated like this!"

Hands flew to headsets in pain as the shrill voice screeched throughout the auditorium, and Meg snickered. "She's such a diva."

"My apologies." Erik's smoothly mellifluous voice came over the house speakers. "A wrong preset, I fear."

Down on the floor, Christine snorted. The woman's garish dyed hair glowed a bordello red, her face flushed with outrage and maroon and orange shadows. Beside her Meg was now giggling uncontrollably. "It's always her, I swear. Last time there was this weird green spot that followed her around the stage. She looked like she was about to puke all evening."

The red lights faded away, replaced by a warm rosy gold. Carlotta shot the girls a venomous look and flounced off. Christine sighed. "We're in for it now, for laughing at her."

"Yeah, I know. Won't be the first time."

A year ago Carol Genrich had announced that her new stage name would be Carlotta, and Meg had earned the woman's wrath by saying, a little more loudly than she'd intended, that Carol-Carlotta was no more Italian than she was a Hottentot.

"Yeah, but you _are_ the _hott_ est chick here, babe," Don the Weasel had said, making finger guns at the little dark-haired dancer.

"Too hot for you, loser," she retorted and he'd laughed. Carlotta, though, had heard the entire interchange and taken her temper out on the two ever since.

Christine shot the light booth a quick glance but it was dark, only the slight glow of the board indicating a presence. She'd been disappointed to find Don the Weasel running sound tonight, his lank dirty-blond hair flopped over one eye and cap turned backwards. Of Erik there had been no sign.

Truth to tell, she wasn't quite sure how to face him. But face him she would, before the night was over.

Christmas Day had started off miserably. She'd woken from a patchy sleep, face blotchy and red from self-pity and tears. The morning had passed in a listless blur of TV, anything but Christmas parades and sappy family specials. School started back up on the 6th, with rehearsals also resuming that evening. Everyone she knew was off skiing or with family. It would be a long two weeks.

Mid-afternoon she'd decided to run to the corner store. Surely something was open and she needed to get out. She'd nearly tripped over the box.

The package, wrapped if you could count brown shipping paper and white twine as "wrapped," fell onto one foot as she'd opened the hallway door. Puzzled, Christine picked it up and brought it into the apartment. It was small, lightweight, but clearly addressed to her in a sharply-black, spiky handwriting. Puzzled, she turned it over. How it hadn't been stolen was a Christmas miracle in itself. Had Santa arrived after all?

With a faint smile at her own foolishness, Christine neatly clipped the string and pulled off the paper. She recognized the label on the box—who wouldn't?-and opened it holding her breath. Inside under carefully folded tissue paper lay a cobalt-blue scarf. She touched it wonderingly with a careful finger. It was so soft it could only be cashmere. A note slipped out from between the layers of tissue, unsigned but in the same spiky handwriting. _You have not been wearing your red scarf lately. Perhaps this will do. You should protect your voice._

She lifted the scarf from the box and jumped in surprise as a small object clattered to the floor. A cassette. Christine knelt and turned it over in her palm. No name, no title. Holding the scarf, she crossed the room and slipped it into the stereo.

There was a brief hiss, then a soft swirl of notes flowed from the speakers, crystalline droplets of sound in the silent room, a wistful aching sadness, a melody she recognized.

Erik's song.

.

He'd long since decided to spend the evenings and weekends upstairs in the managers' office. It had few amenities to recommend a relocation—a padded desk chair, the coffee machine—but it was heated and therefore preferable to his dungeon.

Erik moved the desk mat aside and lowered his mug. He'd made his monthly pilgrimage to Waldenbooks and B Dalton last week, but today would be an old favorite, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_. He was two sips of coffee into the well-worn paperback thriller when the phone rang.

With a grimace he laid the book aside. No doubt a wrong number—who would be calling on Christmas Day? He was tempted to ignore it but lifted the beige receiver between two disdainful fingers.

"The Highlander Theater," he said crisply. "How may I help you?"

There was a pause. "Hello. May I please speak to...is this Erik?"

He stared nonplussed at the phone, belatedly remembering he'd listed the theater's number on the staff directory. It wasn't as if he received calls.

"Speaking."

There was a soft laugh and then a stumble. "Oh. Hi. I didn't think...this is Christine. Christine Daaé."

He made an effort to relax his grip on the phone. "Yes, Ms. Daaé?"

"I didn't know when I'd see you again, so I wanted to thank you for the lovely scarf."

Someone must have forgotten to turn down the heat. Erik ran a finger under the edge of his turtleneck shirt and pulled it away from his skin. "Ah. Well. Yes. You're welcome. You need to protect your voice, after all."

Her delighted laughter paralyzed him. "Well, thank you. It's not that great, but thanks."

It really was warm in here. He propped open the door. "Nonsense. You have a delightful voice, Ms. Daaé."

"I wish" she said ruefully on the other end of the line.

Erik unclenched the receiver again. What nonsense. She had a perfectly lovely voice. Over the pounding in his ears a voice he recognized as his own said "If you would like, I would be happy to assist with that. Your voice, I mean."

"Oh! Would you really? Do you know something about vocal instruction?" He heard genuine pleasure in her tone, but then it fell. "I can't pay you, though. I'm just a teacher."

"There is no such thing as 'just' a teacher," he said firmly. "I would be happy to do so. Free of charge." _Anything to keep Carol-Carlotta from the production._

Two minutes later he had returned the phone to its cradle, having made arrangements.

 _What the hell are you doing, Erik?_

 _._

The house lights were on this time, the stage washed in Erik's signature rosy-gold lighting scheme. The grand had been wheeled to the front and the lid polished, but the auditorium was empty, the light booth dark, the sound board covered. Perhaps she was early.

Christine shrugged off her coat and laid it across the bench. This would be a perfect opportunity to warm up, and she struck a note or two on the uncovered keyboard, then launched into the song she'd been singing in the car, Bing Crosby's "I'll Be Home for Christmas." It had been her father's favorite. He'd never stopped missing her mother, never remarried.

"So where is home?"

She jumped and spun around. Erik stood watching and oh god, listening from the stage manager's spot stage left. She flushed. "Nowhere. Here, I guess."

He walked toward her and she swallowed hard. He was so tall, and those eyes… He'd replaced the mask, she noted, this one like the other one she'd damaged, the color not quite right, the edges presumably glued down to his skin, a Roman nose where his should have been. _Is that what he had looked like_ , she wondered? Was there perhaps the faintest twitch of a smile, when he moved her coat aside, at the blue scarf folded atop it?

"Home with your family, I meant," he said, seating himself at the bench and fastening those odd golden eyes on her.

Christine shook her head. "I don't have any family, not anymore. My mom died when I was a baby, in a car accident. My dad died a few years ago. Cancer."

He looked away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."

She smiled faintly. "It's okay. I should be used to being an orphan by now."

"One never truly gets 'used' to having no one," he said shortly. "But enough of that. Let us continue your warm up and then we'll run through the show's songs and see what you do with them." He flexed his hands and began a scale.

The next few days followed a similar pattern, two hours of singing on stage, with Erik accompanying. Sometimes he instructed her to continue as he circled her like a large and rangy cat, correcting posture and breath control, his hands never quite touching her, suggesting emphasis and motion, tempo and tonal changes. She could hear the difference after the second day, abdominal muscles tighter, tone steadier. At the end of each lesson he would continue playing while she leaned on the piano with a glass of water, watching as his large hands spanned the octaves easily.

The man was fascinating to watch, his eyes lost and expression softer as he played for her, show tunes and ballads, swaying slightly, shirt sleeves rolled up exposing scarred forearms. What had happened to him, she wondered. He was old enough to have served in Viet Nam, but his past was a closed book.

Yet Erik was interesting, clearly musically talented, and probably once very good-looking, she'd realized with a flush. His dark hair sprang back from a widow's peak, high cheekbones and straight brows over those odd eyes, a firm mouth. What would it be like to kiss him, she wondered idly, then flushed. _Get a grip, Christine, the man isn't interested in you, only in what you can do for the show._

And so she continued to watch him, enjoying her secret fantasies, admiring his graceful, silent motions, his elegant hands (big hands, Meg would giggle), his dry sense of humor.

Maybe she'd make him some more cookies as a thank-you.

.

The music lessons had been a mistake, he decided, stirring the frozen mashed potatoes in the tinfoil tray. No, maybe not a mistake, but _definitely_ a miscalculation on his part. It had started with that very first day when she'd come in from the alley, rosy-cheeked and smiling, her honey-gold curls pulled back with a blue ribbon that matched his scarf around her throat. He'd stood in the shadows like some damned stalker and just watched her.

The second day, after they'd diligently worked on the musical, she'd asked him to come with her to the corner diner. She'd paid, ordering tea and a slice of pecan pie to his coffee, black, and he'd watched as she nibbled, obviously enjoying the caramel sweetness and crunch of pecans. He'd caught himself staring at her mouth as she laughed and told him amusing stories about her students. Erik had forced himself to look away and focus on his bony hands, clenched around the chipped white mug.

Saturday she'd brought him another box of cookies and brownies.

Erik raked one hand through his hair, frustrated and angry. It had been so much easier to be aloof, to not _want_.

And now he'd agreed to go to that damned New Year's Eve party.

It was an annual tradition at the theater that he'd consistently avoided, waiting it out in his basement room with a bottle of something and a book. No one seemed to miss his presence.

But she'd asked, those blue eyes shining at him with hope, after a day when they'd practiced "I'm in Love With a Wonderful Guy" and she'd spun around the stage with her arms out, singing in that gloriously exuberant voice. He could almost pretend it was for him, as his hands danced across the grand and she smiled. At him.

Almost as if it were at him.

And so in a moment of foolishness, he'd agreed.

.

The usual wet concrete and paint smell of the lounge was masked by the festive decorations and laden table. Crepe-paper twisted streamers and metallic "Happy New Year!" signs dangled from the ceiling. Below, two metal folding tables had been dragged together and covered with a paper tablecloth. Pizza boxes stacked at one end towered over the other offerings of fried chicken and homemade goodies. A bowl of suspiciously pink punch waited at the other end, and coolers of beer, soda, and ice hunched below.

"There you are!" Meg, her shining black hair swinging free of its usual bun, rushed over. The girls cooed at each other's dresses—Meg's a slinky stop-sign red with a deep v-cut neck and no back. "Costume tape!" she whispered. Christine had made an effort as well, and Meg whistled appreciatively. The bright blue dress was new, one shoulder left bare, the bodice tight and crinkle-pleated with a scattering of sequins, the bottom a cascade of silky ruffles ending just at her knees. She'd even put on heels and twisted her hair up so that her curls fell over one shoulder.

Where was Erik?

She grabbed a plate and eyed the offerings. Nothing with crumbs, not on this dress. Pizza? Greasy and the chances of sauce spillage. Hmm.

"I'd avoid the punch, if I were you," Meg nodded her head at the bowl. "Don the Weasel was hovering over it a few minutes ago."

"Probably adding to it," Christine grinned. "Thanks for the heads-up."

The door at the end of the hall opened, spilling in more people and a rush of freezing air. The New Year's Eve party was a theater tradition, everyone gathering in the green room lounge if they hadn't any other plans. At some point the Director would hang a poster board with the casting announcements, and then the party would truly commence.

Carol-Carlotta swept by, teetering on too-high heels. "She must have started on the booze before the rest of us," Meg observed, rolling her eyes.

"She's probably ticked about the casting," Christine whispered.

"Probably. Hey," she grinned, "congrats."

"You too!" Christine had been ecstatic at the earlier phone call. Meg would play the lovely Liat and Carol had been cast as the conniving and funny Bloody Mary, a solid role with several great moments, comedic lines, and an iconic song, but the diva had not been at all pleased. Christine was to play Nurse Nellie Forbush and was sure the extra difference in her landing the role had been Erik's steady tutelage.

He'd arrived a few minutes back, long black coat and set expression, unwilling or unhappy to be there, and been promptly cornered. Carlotta had approached him unsteadily, laying a hand on his chest and leaning up to whisper something in his ear. Erik had flinched away, his reply low but cutting, from the flush on the other woman's cheeks. Christine couldn't hear the conversation, but Erik was looking murderous and the redhead staggered back to the table.

"Freak," Carol-Carlotta spat, slamming back a drink.

"Don't say that," Christine snapped. "He's not a freak. Leave him alone."

"Oh, he's all yours, if you like that sort of thing," she sneered. "I wouldn't bother, if I were you." She clattered away.

"Hag," Meg said caustically. "But you'll notice _she_ sure tried. I'll bet she tried to get some and he wouldn't touch her. God knows _I_ wouldn't. No telling where it's been. The man's weird but he clearly has taste."

Christine smothered a laugh then gave up, wiping her eyes.

He hadn't looked her way.

.

A few minutes before midnight Mr. Andre called them to assemble in the green room where a TV was broadcasting live the events of downtown Chicago, a freezing and apparently blustery affair. After a moment she was aware of Erik's silent, solid presence behind her, the slight pressure of his long fingers against her elbow, the faint scent of soap and cologne. For a moment she longed to lean back against him...but they weren't a Thing, were they? She didn't dare. Theater staff and select patrons, fellow actors and singers began a countdown, chanting together and fueled by punch. She was acutely conscious of him, flush against her back in the press of the crowd.

The bells pealed out the New Year amidst cheers and Christine turned smiling to Erik. She rose on her tiptoes, placing a hand upon his chest. "Happy New Year!" Turning, his golden eyes locked on hers as she leaned in and her kiss, meant for his unscarred cheek, landed softly on his lips. She drew back, blushing and hesitant as he stared down, his eyes wide and wild, and then he was stepping back so quickly that she lost her balance in the heels and stumbled. Erik's arms locked about her as she fell against his chest; his heart beat wildly under her palms, and his cold hands grasped her shoulders, steadying her. For a moment there was no one else in the room, the cheers muffled and distant as those oddly bright eyes bored into her own. Erik's thumb twitched, then stroked slowly over her exposed collarbone, his cold fingers smoothing her bare shoulder.

"Christine..." Her breath caught and then he was setting her back on her feet. He swallowed hard and released her. "I...I can't."

And then he was gone.

.

Tuesday was back to school teachers' meetings and Wednesday classes resumed, the kids chattering and happy, mostly glad to be back in their routine. From Erik there had been no word, no response to her phone calls, no note congratulating her on the role they'd both worked hard for, and even the backstage side door had a new lock. Christine had fumed about it through the endless in-service meetings, fumed while changing out perky Christmas bulletin boards for perkier January snowmen and snowflakes, and fumed while dusting her always-dusty shelves. But tonight she just ached.

It had become more than just routine , Christine realized. Perhaps not for him, but for her those afternoons had been magical. Alone in the auditorium singing to each other, and walking afterwards, hands thrust in pockets along the slushy streets and falling snow. She'd enjoyed those afternoons, listening to him talk about books and music, the walk along the lake shore with the geese flying black against the grey sky, the time she'd found him in the alley, coaxing a stray kitten to come out from behind the dumpsters, the way his golden eyes crinkled and one corner of his mouth would quirk upwards with amusement, watching his big graceful hands on the keyboard, the time he'd caught her when she'd slipped on the ice. She missed the sound of his voice, that deep resonant voice as they'd sung the occasional duet, giving her chills and a warm spreading feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The days since the party had been unbearably quiet, and though she refused to examine the ache in her heart, something had to give.

Tonight was Twelfth Night, Three Kings Night, Epiphany, the night her father had brought one last gift from the "Wise Men." Well, she could use some Wise Men and advice. It was also the night rehearsals resumed. He'd have to see her then, right?

.

Carlotta, unmollified, flounced off the stage and the ensemble began to run through "There is Nothing Like a Dame!" one last time. Christine shot another look up at the booth, but nothing moved behind the one-way glass. It was time to leave, her part done for the night. Blinking back a sting of tears she headed for the parking lot.

The Bug sat forlornly under another inch or two of new snow. Starting the car to warm up she got out, brushing the snow away from the windows, the lights, the wipers, then Christine slid back in. She slammed the door, apologizing to the little car, and burst into tears.

Fishing in the pocket of her coat for a tissue, her cold and stiff fingers met an unfamiliar shape. A cassette tape. Hunching forward, she turned it over under the weak dome light. _Longing_ , said one side, and _For Christine_ on the other. She slid it into the tape deck.

The achingly beautiful notes of Erik's song spilled into the Bug's interior, sweetly sad and wistful. So he'd found a title for it after all, and presumably an ending, but the song trailed off in its usual spot, incomplete and unfinished. Frowning, she turned it over for the other side.

Music, bright and glorious, a rush of wings, a flight of sound...was this how he thought of her? Slowly, she reached up and pushed the eject button, and turned the key.

"Wait here," she told the car and patted its fender. "I'll be back."

The foyer was empty, the last few stragglers having hastened home. The auditorium too was empty, the stage barren save for the overturned boat and fake palms. Behind the curtains, back stage right, a figure sat bowed over the grand's keyboard, softly playing.

Some Enchanted Evening.

Oh Erik.

She slipped the coat from her shoulders and left it folded across an aisle seat, then quietly climbed the stairs and picked up the melody line, changing the lyrics slightly.

" _Who can explain it, who can tell you why?  
Fools give you reasons, wise men never try._

 _Some enchanted evening, when you find your true love,_

 _When you hear him call you across a crowded room,_

 _Then fly to his side, and make him your own,_

 _Or all through your life you may dream all alone…."_

The shoulder was bony, hard with wiry tense muscle moving under her hand.

" _Once you have found him, never let him go_

 _Once you have found him, never let him go..."_

The notes died away in the theater and Erik drew a ragged breath. Slowly his hand came up and covered hers. She curled her own around it.

"I found your cassette," she said softly. "I liked the name...but it still doesn't have an ending."

"That's because I don't know how it ends yet."

"Do you think...maybe...I can help with that?"

"Do you want to?

"More than I realized, Erik."

"Even knowing what's under...this?" He gestured at his face.

"Yes. You're so more than just your face."

He drew her down across his lap and she wound her arms about his shoulders, stroking his dark hair. Erik buried his face against her neck. His hands rose slowly up her back..

"I hope so...because I don't want to let you go."

And this time, he did not pull away as their lips met. 

* * *

.

Thank you for joining me in this little Christmas story! I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading, and please review.  
~R


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